


Redemption is Hereby Mine

by HackerAxe



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Language, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2020-10-21 11:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20692433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackerAxe/pseuds/HackerAxe
Summary: "Micah was being Micah, causing havoc about who knows what to god knows who, but Micah wasn't quite too himself neither. I ain't too sure m'self, but I'm dyin' to know more."





	1. Insights with Soap

If Arthur Morgan had a dollar for every argument instigated by that blonde bastard, Dutch would be thrilled by the amount of money in the camp funds box. In times like these, Arthur wondered if Dutch was thrilled as it was. What, with his newfound trouble maker to praise about his strong faith in him? About his work ethic and willingness? It seemed the man who’s head was lost in the clouds of a tropical dream turned a blind eye to situations occurring right across his tent.

  
“Why we keep you here is beyond me, but if it’s for doing womanly shit like this, well you ain’t even pullin’ yer weight on that!”  
“Why don’t you leave the woman be and get lost?!”

A drawn-out sigh pulled by fatigue scraped out of Arthur’s lips. Mary-beth and Micah Bell were at each other’s throats; the highest top of their throats out of the three other times this morning. The rat would wander off and chuckle condescendingly or go sit somewhere else in his lonesome after a few minutes, a scowl on his back from every man and woman in camp, but he hovered around Mary-beth like bees to an intruder. What did the poor woman ever do to him? Even Arthur didn’t take rejections to dances that deep.

  
“Looks like that time again,” Arthur begrudgingly remarked to himself but in earshot of John drinking beside him. Always drinking he was, this time of day. In a mess like this, who wouldn’t?

  
“Please.” John began but trailed from a mix of drunkenness and sleep-deprivation. Arthur knew what he had to do. It was his job for years: The break-it-up man. The Alright-settle-down man. Adjusting and putting up his shoulders, it was time for the buck to bare its horns.  
But perhaps, just perhaps, he could hesitate for a moment. Just a moment of his time to pause and evaluate the increasing back and forth shouts.

“That’s it! I’ve HAD it with you!” Mary-beth snapped, the cloth in her hands fired into the bucket below her and sending water across the grass and clothes around her. “YOU want your clothes cleaned right and perfect so badly then WHY don’t you just cramp up your knees and hands for hours and do it YOURSELF!!”

There was a heavy silence from Micah, as well as the other bystanders which included Arthur. How long did he know Mary-beth, anyhow? Whether someone knew her for a few minutes or a few years, the surprise of her finally snapping and raising her voice as loud as some of the men stopped the workflow of just about everyone. As surprised as Micah was initially, there was another addition to the silence. His cord was struck. Micah should have scoffed and left by now, Arthur presumed.

  
Laughed at her display?  
Sneer at her status?  
At very least, grow frustrated and leave for good? Right?

“Move aside,” Micah said firmly. The insulting anger had left his eyes and transformed into something more powerful: Passion. Obligation. Quite possibly a hatchet that was buried in a grave too shallow from years past.

_“Someone has to do it. And with that whore gone…”_

Arthur crossed his arms with his eyebrows fixed high on his forehead. His eyelids seemed in no rush to blink, too afraid of missing what they were going to witness if they did.

  
A light push of his calloused hands, a roll of his sleeves with pride, a fiery blaze in his pupils, and a kneel to the washing bucket was all it took for Micah to start peeling away the covering of what was truly in him. Surrounded by dirty laundry on one end and clean laundry on the other that still needed folding, a man of his type seemed out of place on the outside, but Micah himself knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Cramp up my knees and do it myself, huh? The audacity,” Micah grumbled and hissed, not turning a gaze onto Mary-beth in the slightest. She stood there putting her hands on her hips, unimpressed and unconvinced, but this wasn’t new to him.  
Not the washing.  
Not her gaze.

  
“The damned audacity someone has to assume I ain’t know what I’m talking about!”

His hands were at work now with washing the dress Mary-beth had been working on. Mrs. Grimshaw, the leader of this workhouse, was more than ready to jump on the opportunity to catch Mary-beth not doing what she had just told her to do minutes ago…  
But Micah’s unusually skilled form and practice on washing the laundry caught her eye.  
It gained many, many eyes of camp.

The abrupt intensity of such a simple chore peaked at an unknown interest in Arthur. Listening to Micah rant on a tangent full of vigorous, yet raging enthusiasm sent a feeling up his spine.

  
“If you do it this way you’ll damage the seams!”  
“It’s important that you use this hand motion, or else it will be wrinkly and look like an amateur washed your clothes!”  
“Easy with it, but don’t be so afraid to get a little tougher on areas like these to get the stain out for good! It’ll be like brand new!”  
“Never, ever ring this material out! It won’t just be less durable, but you might even shrink it that way!”

A tap hit Arthur’s shoulders, breaking him free from his trance momentarily. Once Arthur heard his voice, he registered who it was, yet did not seem to register much of anyone or anything else.

  
“Did you… know that Arthur?” Charles questioned as he passed by, halting with wide eyes at all of the tips Micah had about washing laundry. Arthur shook his head absent-mindedly, mouthing off the word “no,” his eyes never leaving Micah washing. Garment, after garment, after garment. His work was nothing less than extremely fast yet equally if not more efficient and thorough.

“And christ alive, dryin’ the damned things aren’t too hard either. Give it a little wave, hang it up- see? Bum. bum. That’s done. And folding it?” How Micah did it was beyond everyone else, but it only took him 3 swift motions to fold an entire dress. Then a shirt, pants, a union suit, a scarf as plaid as a picnic, “Just, like that.”

The pile of clothes perched themselves right in Mary-Beth’s palms the moment Micah had finished. Karen and Tilly were rushing to finish down the notes they had jotted on loose newspaper they had found, and Hosea, staring in disbelief, forgot the newspaper of his was even missing from his hands. Micah Bell, the bastard, the snake, the venomous cold-blooded killer, loud and happy on the trigger, had just gotten on his knees to properly wash every piece of clothing in the pile and fold what was already cleaned. The laundry line was full and so was Micah’s satisfaction with his work.

And then, he was back in camp. This camp. The area grew notably silent to him, only accompanied by Micah’s audible breathing. His skin running colder than usual, Micah had to say something before the locking joints of his was even more notable.

“Well? Aren’t you going to take them, woman-”

“That was very kind of you, Micah.” Mary-beth interjected with ease and a genuineness foreign to Micah.

Kind?

Is that what she said?

The breathing increased but sounded more like hissing and snarling the longer it went on. The weight of the eyes around him pressed against his diaphragm.

_“Oh, squeaky’s at it again! Careful with ‘em, he’ll squeak himself out!”_

The sudden reaction made Mary-beth flinch, seeing the man who caused so much trouble rise up from the shadows all over again.

“Guh! Yes, you clueless little girl! How kind it is of me as a man, who should be doing FAR more important things like protecting your helpless little body who ain’t got nothin’ but a feathered pen to save yerself, WASTING his time here trying to teach a WOMAN who to do her JOB!”

  
The snapping of Micah’s attitude could have caused Mary-beth’s neck to break. Somehow, it did not. The look on her face was stagnant, shifted only lightly by Micah’s abrupt outburst. She had written enough books, seen enough faces, knew enough hearts locked away and documented to know that Micah wasn’t talking to her.

Huffing and puffing in a way that trains failed to challenge, Micah chugged past Arthur and pushed him away like the clear obstacle he was. Until Micah’s hands were momentarily pressed against his bulky abdomen, the one who was meant to break the situation up couldn’t escape looking at the outcome. Was that Micah he was watching all of this time?

No, that was a different man he saw. One he wanted to get to know better. One that…

“Move cowpoke! What’s wrong with you?!”  
Arthur, failing to acknowledge he was rudely pushed aside, readjusted his footing.

“And where you goin’ Micah?”

It was flames lit in a room full of gas.

  
“To get off my ASS unlike the REST of you, get some MONEY so we can get the HELL OUT OF THIS SHITHOLE!”

  
Micah’s voice could crack? Arthur noted that sometime after he could pick up his jaw from the floor. Off the snake slithered into the tall grass after failing to catch another day’s worth of prey, but for once the prey seemed intrigued by his scales. After all, it only took one bite from a snake to poison him for the rest of the day, even for the largest bucks.

_“No, let him run off. He has nowhere to go that won’t kill him. He’ll do the rest when he returns.”_

He had to have stood there for several minutes, sitting at the fire for an hour or more, just recollecting what he saw in Micah’s eyes. The background chatter drifted off in the distance… Dutch, parading about his nonsensical predictions of Micah not being as much of a bad addition to the gang as Arthur and others complained, Hosea, trying to find that newspaper he was reading while ignoring all the banter, and Susan plotting to draft another member into the laundry workcamp sooner rather than later. Who was that man? What was he hiding? He beckoned the flames to tell him, but the flames refused to answer, no matter how long Arthur stared for a response.

Though, someone else did.

  
When Arthur glanced upwards, it was already night time. Crickets singing, the wind gliding across the grass to make it breathe, and the chipping of a knife against hardened metal.

Curiously enough, the two had briefly locked glances.

Curiously enough, the flames cued them both for this very moment.

Curious… always curious, Arthur was.

Frustration coughed from Micah’s lips hidden under the blonde curtain of a mustache, irritated with a passing wheeze preceding it. If the locking eye was not enough, the narrowing of it was to get Arthur curious about something else. Give him some room, Arthur bargained with himself, and it can all come together in due time.  
Due time.  
Due time, Micah bargained with himself, and perhaps, just possibly…

No. Micah grunted and took his leave from the fire to go back into where he was most comfortable: dark seclusion. From how badly he had cursed himself from one day alone, he refused to let his self-control be compromised once more. Self-control. If only that came to him as simple as the laundry, then maybe the irritation rubbing at his ribs wouldn’t be as fierce.

  
The night was getting deeper, the absence of chatter making ghosts from the past more talkative than they were in the shadows of the day. The flames flickering out, at last, gave an answer to both of the lost men, one more selfless to admit it than others:

It was time to rest and begin a new day.


	2. Intolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I still cannot bring myself to agree with Dutch’s decision to keep Micah onboard completely, but there must be something Dutch’s eyes see that mine cannot."  
"Or perhaps I have seen a glimpse of the reason, but my eyes have grown too skeptical with past betrayal and with age.”

She was minding her own business, keeping to herself and taking in the sights of her beautiful world. Those serenading robins and hushing, gentle blades of grass reminded her that she was at home and safe within their arms. Mother Nature cherished all of her children: from the swimming tadpoles to the aged does as the one preparing for her evening nap now. There was no creation of hers that she despised nor disdained.

But then, man was spawned.

Robins squawked and grass blades crunched. Nature’s bedding was stained red and the oblivious beauty would never wake from her slumber. Ignorance was her mother’s final blessing.

She was patient towards men, albeit the honorable few. However, that honor was bestowed at her own discretion. He would pay for crossed boundaries if he saw them or not, Arthur Morgan knew that. Accepted that. Just as he knew Mother Nature would not feed a grown man if he chooses not to hunt for it himself.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he began with a tone that was all routine, yet still held a fair share of honest sympathy, “camp hadn’t eaten much in a while. Think you’ll be enough though.”

The hunting blade effortlessly did its job. For all these years, it never seemed to fail. At best, it may have only needed sharpening every so often, but nothing more. Saving Pearson the trouble in his already busy occupation, Arthur had successfully butchered all of the venisons needed to make a hearty stew.

In the noon sun, high, cloudless, and basking in blue, Arthur concurred with the doe’s decision to have wanted to take a rest here. While lingering on the thought he gazed across the field, pleasantly admiring how comforting of a final resting place it was. Be it a doe or an innocent man, short-lived or for the rest of his aching days, Arthur apologized for discarding another life. A life shared under the same Mother. She was firm, but she was very fair. For men like Arthur, she could come to tolerate their behavior and way of life.

To Arthur’s condolences, most men were intolerable and would soon face their wrath sooner than would all men inevitably face. It took little thought for the providing, selfless, hard-working man who carried his meat to his saddlebag to come to terms with who constructed themselves in his mind first. Rather, choking in the shadows that crept behind him every day.

Micah. What was that camp going to do with him?

* * *

“Thank you Mr. Morgan,” Pearson beamed, collecting the packs of meat Arthur had delivered. “These’ll do well for us for a good while!”

“Shoar,” Arthur responded absent-mindedly. It was becoming difficult to focus on what was being said to him with the sound of a bad feeling churning in his gut, alongside the chatter that brushed off his ear more down south than north. It was coming from the table over there in the center of camp. A glimpse of the bastard’s black leather coat sent a throb in his body, exhaled through a suspicious, scrunched nose. Timing was essential in intercepting potential disasters, yet who had better timing than the man himself?

“Arthur!” Dutch rung joyously, arms as wide as his smile. “My favorite son!”

“Real funny, Dutch.” Arthur sighed. He could just smell the butter all over Dutch’s hands, ready to rub all the compliments in the world on him and throw him into a fiery hot pan called his _plan_.

“We are making moves, Arthur! Just you wait, I can feel it today! Everything is falling together. Before you know it, we are out of here! With everyone donatin’ regularly, our heads low and quiet, Micah finally reunited with us from Strawberry…”

“I woulda thought with all the damned chaos he caused, you sent me over there to pick him up so you could hang him yerself!” Arthur took a cigarette from his pocket.

“And why would I do that? After all that money he brought back along with ya, too. Heard y’both at least had fun pluckin’ down the O’Driscoll population,” Dutch’s chuckle slipped from his climbing mustache. “Yet another thing to be thankful for, right Arthur? The death of those who ain’t never supposed to have been alive in the first place.”

Arthur was silent while he took in his cigarette, taking his time to let it sink in, before letting out an, “I guess,” behind his trail of smoke.

“And besides, look at what he’s been doin’. Saw him workin’ around the camp a little. He’s strange but you wasn’t the most uh,” Dutch cleared his throat. “Most cool-headed thinker in the West back then neither.”

Arthur scoffed, to which Dutch chuckled again in response. “Shut up, Dutch. What’s the fool been up to now?”

Dutch, already getting his own cigar out, shrugged with a hand in his pocket. “Mm, don’t know. I think he’s talking with Lenny about his books. Real smart kid that Lenny is, too,” Dutch trailed for a moment, then shook his head lightly. “But his remarks on Mr. Miller… the kid’s smart but he needs to understand more about his excellence. Cause, you see--” On prompt of Dutch beginning his ramblings on Evelyn Miller again, Arthur was already drifting off and preparing to leave.

“Arthur!”

“I’ll uh,” Arthur began to excuse, “I’ll listen to yer side of the argument later. I need to be gettin’ on…” It was a close one. Had Arthur not done that, he would have been there for hours! Dutch sighed, but still smiled at Arthur go. It was impossible to hate him completely, even at his most childish. Dutch waved him off with a small laugh slipping into his speech.

“Alright, Arthur!”

Lenny let people take their time to get their point across, but no amount of time could ever give him enough information or meaning about what in God’s name was Micah’s point! It was bothersome, orbiting around a point that didn’t exist. Complaining about a topic that no one had started. On, and on, and on! Fighting a war he created and battled on alone was Micah’s only skill and aggravating contribution to the gang, no matter what little plucks of trash he picked up along the way.

“What are you gettin’ at, then?” Lenny demanded from Micah, for the fourth time at best.

“What I’m getting at, _boy,_ is somethin’ that will keep you from bein’ a floor mat. Books don’t get you no where,” Micah snarled with an incrementing frustration. His hand eased itself on the book then tossed it away, sending it screeching with scattering, fluttering pages. “They DON’T!”

“Hey!” Lenny cried, already leaning in a failed attempt to confiscate his book away from Micah, only to have his shoulder latched on by his gnawed, rat-like claws.

“Oh, no no no,” Micah hummed with a lowering tone. “That’s a distraction. You need your eyes and ears up here so I can _help you_.”

“Get off of me--”

“You know who we rob from, hm? Who do we rob from?” Micah’s face was at a distance Lenny was uncomfortable with.

_ “Who do we rob from, Micah?”_

“Folks who keep their heads in books. They’re rich, sure, but weak. Cowardly. All yella’ in the face, never havin’ a pair of balls a day of their life! And you know how they end up? Their brains blown in, right in their plush little slippers and surrounded by library books and the like!”

Micah’s distasteful chuckling and snort inhales disgusted Lenny, and it was clear in his face. His inhale was less than clear, hiccuping into his speech.

“They, they take so many years with their head in them books they forget how to hold a gun. Only knowin’ how to print letters not get no real money like a man. No words can do much of anythin’ but maybe save you a few seconds before your head’s rollin’ on the floor.” Micah’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Besides. With what you’re tryin’ to _study in_, I doubt they’d… you know, hire a--”

A tightening grip on the back of Micah’s collar cut the flow of his conversation and he was detached away from Lenny’s shoulder.

“Hire someone far too good for them? That what’chu was sayin’?” Arthur had a face of disappointment, yet expected no less from Micah. “That boy’s goin’ be smarter than likely you, yer daddy, and every daddy before him all combined. Knock that shit the hell off and go make yerself useful, Micah!”

Micah, fixing on a polite tone caressed with the finest of snake poison, proposed his side of the story. His fangs dripped with venom. “We was just having a conversation about… occupations for his growing, bright future. Right, Lenny?”

Lenny spoke stern and assertive when he left with his tattered book. “I’m gonna go read elsewhere, Arthur. The bastard can’t never shut up.”

“Can’t argue with you there…” Arthur added with a brief smirk that wasn’t slow to return back to its initial frown. “Get to work, Mr. Bell. That’s enough outta you.” His grip on his sturdy, weathered leather jacket was released with a quick shove that was strong enough to make Micah’s feet search for proper footing.

“Ease up, cowpoke,” Micah warned with a more serious vexed tone. “Been doin’ all the shit you haven’t while you was goin’ frolickin’ in the woods with other butterflies. I’ve done all I needed to do. Started the fires, fed the chickens...”

“Mr. Bell,” beckoned a voice known all too well, especially if you were anywhere near the ladies side of the camp. It was none other than Susan Grimshaw. “I’ve been looking for you! Just thinking about you, too!”

“What a delightful pleasure.” Micah was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. So thrilled, he forgot to show it.

“Our ladies today have been more than lackluster… and I saw you were quick to agree the other day!” Her arms bounced to her hips. The smile could have said it alone before her lips could even move. Micah shrugged before starting yet another arrogant proposal.

“Well, looks like we’re going to have to get rid-”

“Get some volunteers? Your enthusiasm enthralls me to no end, Mr. Bell! C’mon, water’s already done and set, and the boys made quite a mess out themselves as per usual, especially that filthy Uncle.”

“Excuse me?” Micah turned around with his typical aggressiveness, even if it was towards a skill he was quite proficient in. He met a face from Mrs. Grimshaw that was new on her face in theory, but the same one he’s seen for years.

_“I think me lettin’ you wiggle out that woman was the most gracious excuse I could give you. Now unless you want me to change my mind,”_

A shove. He was back at camp again.

“C’mon, blondey. Washin’ time, heheh!” Arthur’s snickering at the display was stopped as quickly as it came when he heard Mrs. Grimshaw do a considerably audible sniff.

“Arthur _Morgan!_”

“What,” Arthur yelped. “T-that wasn’t me! This time…”

“You’re covered in mud like a goddamn piglet! Makin’ an embarrassment of the whole damned camp! Come here and stop actin’ like a child, laughin’ in your own shit.”

Too slow on his own draw, Arthur was led away by her authoritative grip. Policing on the other members of camp makes it simple for him to forget that certain others can police on him.

* * *

Entertainment those days were something extremely short on supply, so when it blessed the camp with its presence they were quick to take the opportunity.

A squishy splatter on the old, grimy wood, coated with old spilled stew and filth, curled Micah’s mustache into a frown and others’ into a sneer. It was disgusting. The lack of care to this table, crudely crafted or not, only piled onto his irritation as if it wasn’t enough that eyes and scoffs crept up his back and bit at his neck. It happened every time. Every damned time.

The grime refused to come off. Feeling challenged, his frustrations supplied more strength to his arm to work harder at it, to Micah’s minor regret. Karen’s laugh was unique enough to be distinguished from the background noise and chatter and was an extra bite to Micah’s already bug-bite riddled neck. With all the damnable herb picking he was forced to do early that day in Mother Nature’s burning hot glare, even his hands and arms burned with similar scorching. He was being led about and told to do tricks like a dog, and panting one too. Snarling like one when someone so urgently needed to throw a bone right at his head.

“Lookin’ nice there, missy!” Karen jested with a smack of Micah’s shoulder as she passed. “Maybe make a good cleanin’ lady, but not a pretty one!” Her acidic, toxic touch caved his shoulder ever so forward. Now, the table had no weight in Micah’s mind.

Karen’s crooked smile and ear-scraping voice alone was revolting grime even he couldn’t begin to wash from his mind ever since. _Missy_, that ugly name he thought he buried years ago. Oh, but where were Micah’s manners? She was a young lady, so the least he could do was smile and accept the compliment.

“Why thank you Mrs. Jones,” He responded with through his teeth, attempting to suppress that finicky build-up of pressure that never failed to burst eventually. “Unfortunate I can’t say the same for… whatever that thing you woke up with today.” He lined his words with a false sense of sympathy.

“Why…!” She whipped her head around with her bouncing, fresh, golden locks following her trail. Karen had known better to fall into the trap, but with the circumstances, her mouth thought before her mind did. “ ‘m happy y’noticed I actually washed my hair and crafted at it for a whole three hours this morning!”

“I meant yer mug,” Micah smiled before tossing the dirty washrag by her boots, taking his leave and singing out with a gesture of his hand, “_missy._”

And to think someone had the nerve to say that he was in the wrong, no more than a minute or two later. The laughs increased around him, and so did the ones in camp.

Micah used to question many things in life, but most of those questions were answered with a strong black or white divide to end useless thoughts all together. In spite of Micah’s best attempts, a constant recurring thought in large groups, especially the one he had found himself stuck in now:

What in hell’s name was the sudden interest in him all about? Micah stared at the humiliated man in the dishwater for answers.

Knowing what he was doing? Bringing _real_ money to this gang? Putting that woman in line by teaching her how to do the simple basics of laundry? Warning that hoodlum who could hold a book that it was going to get him killed sooner than it got him a job? It was a kill or be killed kind of country, and there was little room for cowards in between. At best he expected at least some praise for not sitting and rotting away like the other fools of the camp, but all he got was an old, weathered fox hauling him to do work with an occasional spank on the wrist by Arthur.

Arthur. The one name besides Dutch that he could remember in this godforsaken place. His grip tightened on the dirty plate and rag just thinking about it. What fool could forget the name of the grand fool of them all? The good-doer,_ the hero_, the one everyone had the nerve to smile at and kiss at his muddy, greasy feet. Arthur Morgan, Mr. Morgan, could you help me Morgan? You’re always loyal Morgan. Always have my back Arthur. Can’t forget about Arthur. Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur_. Micah could single-handedly mow down the entirety of the West if there was a bullet for every time those spineless yellow-bellies said that name in one day.

“Arthur!” The dish cracked down the middle, but at least Micah’s firm, agitated glare did not, regardless of what his reflection tried to tell him. This had better be good, his narrowing eyes conveyed, begrudgingly rotating towards the beckon.

“Arthur, don’t you smell clean?” Abigail lightly teased, Jack wrapped around one of her arms. He was eating a bowl of soup made with the tender meat Arthur had hunted for them earlier that day. Ah, anyone could depend on Arthur, couldn’t they?

“Thank you,” Arthur blushed and chuckled. Some of the water was still in his ears from Susan’s waterboarding that she insisted was _cleaning_. If that was a cleaning, then he might avoid it with a partner altogether. Abigail chuckled before continuing with a mild plead in her eyes.

“Speakin’ of clean, there was somethin’ I needed t’ask you… ” Abigail begun, glancing down after a while. Arthur was patient enough with her to let her speak up.

“Sure,” Arthur nodded with his weight shifted and his hands relaxed on his belt. “Anything, whatchu need?”

“This boy, heh, he’s really growin’ out his clothes, and gettin’ ‘em washed seems to shrink ‘em down every time… if it ain’t too much trouble,” Abigail still seemed hesitant on expressing her wishes clearly, and Jack batted his eyes up to his uncle in a blissful ignorance. Arthur was a kind man, and of course he wouldn’t refuse. But Jack? Jack wasn’t his child. This wasn’t his job. Everyone knew whose job this truly was, even Micah knew something as simple as that.

There were two additional cracks in the plate under his claws.

“Ain’t no trouble for me, but it seems like a hell lot of a good deal of trouble for that Marston…” Arthur’s voice trailed off in some disappointment.

“Oh, you know he’s the farthest thing from a father you can get,” She huffed, subtly covering Jack’s naive ears so he wouldn’t hear her demeaning his name. “Damned child in a grown man’s body, always runnin’ off drinkin’ the minute Jack even looks in his direction. Always an ‘I don’t know what yer talkin’ about’ from him if I dare bring up- Oh, Jack!” She was interrupted by Jack seeming to have dropped his spoon on the dirty ground. So, Jack used his hands to eat the soup instead, to Abigail’s strong dismay. “That’s dirty! Take your hands out of the--”

“Food.” Abigail’s silence after that single word made Arthur question if that was really what it was, spilled all over the once pristine table like that. Seemed like a downright mess, now. Arthur sighed, but with very little bother to him over all. Regardless, Abigail touched his wrist when he attempted to remedy the situation.

“No no, I have it. You best get on, now.”

“You sure, I mean it ain’t much for me to…”

“C’mon, get. I know you ain’t much like cleanin’ tables. Yer the action man, not the cleaner!”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle when Abigail read him like the open book he was. “Sure, you take care now. I’m runnin’ back into town for a little somethin’ anyway, I’ll pick up the clothes on the way back.”

“And not coated up in whiskey, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled again with another smile, oblivious to yet another crack in the distant plate. “Whaaat, I said a _little_ something, not a lot! Be seein’ ya!” His fingers saluted her off casually, then off Arthur went on his way.

“Mr. Bell,” Arthur acknowledged as he passed by, Micah’s lowered head on the side of his line of vision.

“...Morgan.” It was an empty reply from Micah. Nearly as empty as his patience. Seeing everything going per usual, Arthur let the man be and kept his theories for Micah’s sour mood to himself. Some just don’t know how to smile, he supposed.

He knew there was something he hated about the scar-faced bastard. Can’t take care of his odor, can’t take care of his kid, can’t take care of his damned woman. The boy ought to learn how to fend for himself and the woman ought to know her tasks every day, that was the basics.

But who must the boy learn from? Go to some other man like cowpoke? Then the boy’s already doomed and will turn idiot before the day is done. That’s a man’s job -- a father’s one, clear, defined job to get his son to fly out the eagles nest. Doesn’t matter if you hate ‘em, doesn’t matter if you like ‘em. No rag a man held could ever scrub away the filth of being a coward, and John Marston stunk of it every day. It was unclean, unsightly.

Micah had to force more soap onto the filthy plate that he swore had John inside.

A coward, a filthy coward. Micah could name fifty different fathers who could do much better than scar face, starting with his own father. His father wasn’t a coward! There was no need for useless, soft mechanics like _love _or _nurture_. Disgusting. Disgusting, wasteful, and pointless! He could drown men like Marston without hesitation. He could do it right now, for unlike him, Micah was taught and raised like a man and by a man, a _real man_! A providing, killing, successful _man_. What was the point of those petty trinkets others called _compasion_, anyway? It only crafted losers, not survivors. There is no area in between. There is no sympathy or mourning that survive through the real world. There are no tears for the blood seeping through one’s palms and trickling into the soapy waters. There are only winners and losers.

Survivors and the dead. The men and the cowards left behind.

_“Do you want to be left behind?”_

_“You will be left behind.”_

_“You will--”_

“Mr. Bell?” Came a feminine voice that despised the words that it was forced to create. Micah was back in camp already, but he had sworn he was gone for longer. The dish was shattered in the tainted, soapy liquid, and he clear forgot what he was doing. Or better yet, the point of what he was doing. His frown couldn’t have been lower, and neither could his tone. “Since you was cleanin’ and all, could you-”

“Could I? Could I what? Do more of the chores you ain’t want to do? Hm? First your damn man ain’t wanna father so you find someone else to do that, now you’re comin’ to me cause mothern’ ain’t quite yer deal too? Huh? Got plenty of men around, don’t you?” The rag, tainted brown and red, slapped against the dying grass. There he went again, hissing through his teeth and snarling through his nose.

“Mica-”

“Doooon’t you? Bet ya just open yer legs and they’ll do whatever you say, Mrs. Roberts! Got too greedy, now you got that _thing_ stuck to your hip! Think you’d be more careful now with that little _squirt_ draggin’ ya here n’ fro? Huh?!” Jack began to cower behind his mother and her protective hands pushing him ever so lightly back.

“That’s enough,” Called a voice in the distance. Micah’s increasing frustrations with what may or may not have been in front of him took hold of all of his senses. His blood was boiling, steaming from his cut, clenched palm.

“I ain’t yer maid. I ain’t yer man. I ain’t yer damned _shit_, and until you get that through that overdone head of yours there’s not a goddamn thing you’re getting from me!”

“Get away from me…!” Abigail cried with a tinge of her own anger, an anger underestimated far too many times in her life.

Micah coughed an exhale that would have been a laugh. That is, if it humored him. He snorted a disgusted, tightening inhale before he growled once more. “...Didn’t hear a word I just said. You ain’t the one in control here, I am -- NOW GET LOST-”

“That’s ENOUGH!” Bellowed the raspy, untamed animal the gang most called John Marston. When Micah’s body was turned with a similar force to Arthur’s earlier that day, a reflex triggered within his arm. Fool him once, shame on him. Fool him twice?

The incoming fist was caught at the very last possible minute on John’s thin forearm. Micah’s rat-like nails had scraped into his wrist, and his ice cold blue eyes stared deep into John’s for a few moments of silence. A moment of silence for the death in Micah’s pupils.

“It’s_ enough_ when you be a man and look after your child.” Gradually, ever so gradually, Micah let John go, leaving him a red, wet mark smudged on his skin. “Excuse me,”

He took his leave, spitting on the side after another small cough or two. The snake was dripping with venom and in its path it left a toxic burn in the grass and in the very air around him. As per usual, he remained unphased by the gang’s constant staredown of him after he engaged in such combustible confrontations, however this argument in particular had turned notably astray. John was in a hurry to snatch his arm back. To think the bastard of the camp would even attempt to lay down some sort of morals. Through it all, the two sides had shared one thing in common: What the others were thinking didn’t matter. For John, all that had mattered in that moment was making sure Abigail was alright.

Admittedly, John was a little late on his paternal resolve. Abigail couldn’t have been more disappointed on how late John had shown up for her aid and how a bottle was his only companion that joined him when he intervened. What was he supposed to do? He tried, didn’t he? Oh, how he always tried. His attempt in speaking failed before he could open his mouth.

“How nice of you to show up, John Marston.” Her hands were already held tight to an uncomfortable Jack. John’s questioning barely got her to stop in her departure. “C’mon Jack… back in the tent.”

Stinging from yet another scar in the graveyard of scars, John glared back into Micah’s direction. Micah knew when he was being targeted, when he was hated. It was about as fierce as a feeling as the wind moving absolutely _still_.

Nothing. At best, it was familiar to him. _Comfortable _to him.

It all reminded him of _home_.

* * *

“What are we going to do with him…” Arthur muttered out through a fatigued sigh. “He really did all that while I was gone?”

“Yes! Now Abigail ‘n John are all actin’ crazy and at each others neck, Jack got scared ‘n ran to us,” Tilly continued on, irritated and stressed from what had transpired a little over an hour ago. “I don’t know what that Dutch sees in that bastard!”

“Me neither, we can both agree on that, but,” Arthur didn’t want to have to say this, but whatever morals he still retained from his years of outlaw experience told him it was best to say it anyway. “But y’can’t keep on feedin’ into his act. He’s a fool out for sick games, and if he doesn’t get no response’r kick out of it, he’ll burn himself out and go back to whatever corner he lingers around in. Don’t know what’s been gettin’ under his skin but that ain’t my business. Just tell Abigail and Marston to stay away from that creep, will ya?”

Tilly frowned some, but her head couldn’t deny his truth. Nodding, she tilted her head to the side. “Y’look awful tired, Arthur…”

“Little bit, I suppose. Ain’t nothin’ t’worry ‘bout.”

“You look like you’ve been runnin’ left, right, and center! Somethin’ been eatin’ ya? C’mon now, I’ve been bitin’ your ear off with all this nonsense, I can stay a while to listen…”

“No, no. I’m fine, honest. Hell, if I didn’t look tired Dutch would send me out ‘til I did!” Arthur may have chuckled briefly after, but less in humor and more recognizing the fair truth of his situation.

“It ain’t about_ him_, is it?” Even Tilly’s voice could barely tolerate saying his name after all of his chaos, so she refrained from it.

“Oooh, him? No, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of idiots since before I even was in this gang, long ago. Course it ain’t him, it’s…” Arthur’s voice trailed once again, with his hands waving about to pick up the falling words before they fell to the ground. He caught none of them. “Just, take it easy for me, alright? We’re gon’ get through this. This camp ain’t real comfortable as compared to the last couple, I know, but take it from me and Dutch. We’re on the right track, okay?”

Tilly wasn’t as fast nor optimistic to respond, and neither was her eyes to gaze up at him. Her hands folded over one another. “Whatever you say, Arthur.”

“Sure…” Arthur trialed off, understanding exactly what her gesture meant. “Well, let’s talk more later.”

By this point, Arthur reached the time of day where everything he needed to do was complete, and he could spend the rest of his time waiting to sleep. He’d get up, get dressed, and then do it all over again until Nature took her course. Nature, or the Pinkertons, whichever fell upon them first.

With Blackwater, the train robbery, and the fiasco Arthur and Micah pulled in Strawberry just a few weeks ago, the latter may be more likely than not. Strawberry. Just_ hearing _that town’s name turned his vision red with the blood of all the fallen pouring into his face and palms. In the silence, he could even hear it; there were at least three bullets firing for every chilled heartbeat in Arthur’s chest. And, in turning his gaze to the devil’s son himself, he could relive it in the void of Micah’s coat. What did that jacket hold that prompted Arthur the thoughts burrowing in his mind?

Jacket. Ah, Mr. Morgan had nearly forgotten; he had a compactly folded pair of clothes for Jack. However, after what Tilly had just relayed to him and with the tense air to pair it, his fingers curled onto the clothes in hesitation. Was now truly the right time to give the clothes? His intrusion would likely not make their situation any better…

And nor would the fresh blood smudges on the corners of the sleeves. His indecisive eyes weighed their options, and decided to glance back at John and Abigail’s tent. Surely his subtle footsteps approaching the tent would be cloaked by the sounds of the two’s consistent arguing, or at least he hoped so. He wasn’t willing to make an explanation for his arrival, so the clothes laid themselves on a crate next to the tent. The weight of the clothes may have been relieved from his shoulders, but the regrets of what he had to do to get them remained.

Speaking of regrets, he turned back to what he was looking at before: a man who looked exhausted from causing mayhem, or so it seemed. He sat by the fire secluded from the others, tending to a small pot of sorts that hung over it. There was nothing that came out of him. No glares or empty threats to those who passed by, not even grumbling. At best, a small handful of throat clears and coughs. In the afternoon smokey haze, filled with leftover spite and agitation from days worth of hunger, it was simple to be tired. Underneath it all, Dutch was tired, the men of camp were tired, the women of camp were tired, and most certainly, Arthur was tired. Too tired to want to deal with anymore tempers being set off from Micah, John or whoever else. Judging by the stinging pain in his shoulders, he contemplated if he was even too old as well.

* * *

_ “It has been a difficult set of weeks ever since leaving the frozen Hell of Colter, but the cold is still here with us. In camp, tensions have been getting higher and patience has dropped lower, regardless of the optimism Dutch may preach to me with his quotes from Mr. Miller. Everyone has about lost their restraint a little more than usual and the bickering has become incessant. Micah has done few favors to avoid adding firewood to the flames, but even with my uncertainty and frustrations in the man it would be ignorant of me to believe he was the sole cause of the chaos. Moreso, one could argue that all of us have done our part. For once, I see fatigue in his body, hunched and distant from the others, wanting anything but another dispute. I still cannot bring myself to agree with Dutch’s decision to keep Micah onboard completely, but there must be something Dutch’s eyes sees that mine cannot. _

_Or perhaps I have seen a glimpse of the reason, but my eyes have grown too skeptical with past betrayal and with age.”_

Arthur was hesitating on the last paragraph, and his hands understood why. The blood on his hands may have been washed clean to everyone else, but for all Arthur was concerned it was still caked under his nails and stuck between the rough crevices of his palms. Doe blood from the morning was far easier to clean off than what he had to do to get those clothes for Jack.

Did he have to? Did mothers and fathers kill shopkeepers on the daily for their children? Arthur didn’t have a choice, but every choice was presented to him within an arm's reach. So why did he refuse to take it? The hesitation and shame in writing what had occurred this afternoon was Arthur’s pitiful confession to his wrong doing, and he was lost in the repeating memory of the event.

“Auugh!!”

The shout startled Arthur and forced him out of the memory, and nearly out of his seat. How long had he been staring at that book, anyway? Far too long it seemed, for he missed the entire commotion! He’d assume someone must have broken their necks with that kind of scream, and by the looks of things, it was a certain someone he knew laying on the ground, groaning in pain.

“You better watch that damned _temper _of yours, boy!” Micah squawked at Charles, storming by from the scene. Pain was in every crack in his voice but no sympathy was given as per usual. Folks in camp had their own problems to deal with, including Arthur. Sighing and shaking his head, Arthur turned his gaze back down to his journal so he could pass his frustrations about this insane day through writing. The situation seemed to have passed, and regardless of what occured Arthur believed Micah deserved whatever Charles had done. He was his far more cool-headed best friend after all, so to be able to push him to such an extreme was-

“Glad to see you helping out, Arthur.” Came a stern, deep voice, sizzling after his patience was ran too thin. Perhaps he wasn’t too cool-headed at the moment after all.

“Wh… what are you-”

“It’s everyday with that man, and barely a soul does a thing about him. I’m sick of it!”

Being put on the spot, Arthur struggled as much to find words now as he did on paper just moments ago. “Charles, Charles I was just-”

“Just, drop it Arthur, I’m taking a walk, don’t follow me.”

Clouds of gray covered the sky, sparing no release from the tension by withdrawing all merciful sunshine from the often intolerable mankind. Did that include himself, Arthur briefly thought when he was met with the cold image of Charles’ back turned away from him? Perhaps, but it was not intended. Not now, but Arthur’s own frustrations failed to fully come to terms.

As such, the irritation of being wrongly blamed for the fault of another, doubled by the constant arguments and squabbling between one another, tripled by being overworked and chased into corners by the law…

...and quadrupled by a man who’s spilled far too much blood and boiled many more than either Arthur nor Mother Nature’s own liking…

...ruptured through and destroyed his self-control. The distant thunder was Nature’s approval.

Nature cherished all of her children, Micah thought. There was no creation of hers that she despised nor disdained, Micah was told as a child.

So out to _her_, in the form of a strong, masculine silhouette in the hazy smoke from the campfires, he held his hand. To be pulled from his injured spine. To be treated on equal terms as Nature’s children, after an event where he had completely ignored the thought when it did not aid him.

And because of this, Nature’s steps, aided by the sound of thunder drawing near and a man’s fuming grunts and footsteps nearer, she did take hold.

By the collar, robbing him of the air she had gifted him and the simple kindness men had given him once before. Robbing him of the compassion Micah failed to give to others.

Robbing him of the ground below his feet, dangling from Arthur’s single clenched grip.

His pride. His arrogance. His fight. His control. His power. His thoughts. His warmth.

Another word from Micah? His very _life_.

The world had long since disappeared around him, seeming that Nature had robbed him of that as well. Perhaps even his sense of reason and deduction when he could not tell Arthur’s enraged blue pupils… from that of another man he once knew.

Three words broke Micah from his frozen state of fear and dissociation, as harsh as the lightning far over the horizon, and as gruff as the thunder above the two of them.

“Come with me.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)

**Author's Note:**

> There may or may not be more fanfictions like these from me, but so far I've been having fun writing these! Stay tuned!


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